Bohemian Rahpsody
by Bex
Summary: The 8th Doctor takes Grace to meet a certain composer...


Bohemian Rhapsody  
An Eighth Doctor & Dr. Grace Holloway Story

By Bex  
  

    
     
    
     **Milan, 1884**  
     
    
     At the café Osteria Aida, a large group of Bohemians sat 
    
     carousing far into the evening, around several tables that they 
    
     had pushed together. 
    
     It was a mixed, motley group. A number were students at the 
    
     Conservatoire; the rest were artists, actors, and writers, with 
    
     an emphasis on the poor and starving variety. Roughly half of 
    
     the revelers had just wandered across the party and had decided 
    
     to stay. No one minded. Wine, food, and song flowed freely. 
    
     Occasionally, an argument would threaten to break out, as 
    
     someone succumbed to a bellicose impulse, perhaps fueled by an 
    
     excess of spirits. The group's natural peacekeepers generally 
    
     managed to sort it out, though, keeping the celebration from 
    
     spinning out of control, and the café owner from an excess of 
    
     anxiety. 
    
     No one had started to dance on the table-tops, either - yet. 
    
     What was the party for? It might have been to celebrate the 
    
     end of exams, but those were still some time away. Perhaps one 
    
     of the writers at the table had just sold a novel to a 
    
     publisher? 
    
     Actually, no. Most of the revelers there were hanging on, 
    
     financially speaking, by their fingernails. They were 
    
     celebrating for no good reason at all. Just because. 
    
     One of the few woman at the table, Grace Holloway, a traveler 
    
     from the United States, sat, resplendent in rust-colored silk. 
    
     She was talking, laughing, and enjoying herself more than she 
    
     had in quite a long time. Most of the men at the table were 
    
     flirting with her outrageously, much to her amusement. 
    
     Well, all except one. 
    
     She flicked a quick, amused glance at the chestnut-haired man 
    
     in the green coat who sat at ease across the table from her, 
    
     conversing with great animation with several artists and writers. 
    
     The Doctor, her time-traveling companion from Gallifrey 
    
     seemed to be oblivious to her. A cup sat at his elbow, but he 
    
     seemed to have forgotten it, as well. She gave a mental shrug 
    
     and turned her attention back to the man next to her. Was he a 
    
     writer, or a playwright? She couldn't remember. She took a sip 
    
     of her glass of wine and snickered inwardly - she was drinking 
    
     for mere pennies what snobbish wineconnoisseurs in her time, the 
    
     end of the 20th century, would eventually pay top dollar for. 
    
     The Doctor noted Grace's glance, but did not acknowledge it, 
    
     deep as he was in discussion. To his left, he could just see 
    
     out of the corner of his eye that the fellow next to him was 
    
     sketching with a charcoal pencil on a small scrap of paper. As 
    
     soon as there was a lull in the conversation, the Doctor took 
    
     the opportunity to look more closely at what he was drawing. 
    
     To his surprise, he saw a portrait of Grace forming before 
    
     his eyes. The artist had caught her spirit with just a few 
    
     perfectly-placed lines. 
    
     "Oh, well done!" the Doctor said in admiration. The artist 
    
     smiled, pleased. "It's yours, then," he declared, carefully 
    
     handing the impromptu portrait to a delighted Doctor. "Keep it; 
    
     I insist." 
    
     "Thank you!" he said, and meant it. Displaying the sketch 
    
     with a flourish, he turned to his fellow conversationalists. 
    
     The others leaned forward to admire his prize and compare it 
    
     ith the real thing across the table, before returning to the 
    
     debate. The Doctor fished in his pocket, removed a small tube, 
    
     rolled up the small piece of paper carefully to avoid smudging 
    
     the portrait, and slid it inside the tube. He then returned it 
    
     to his pocket. 
    
     The artist leaned over. "You are a lucky man, to have such 
    
     a lovely companion," he commented slyly, a hint of a question in 
    
     his inflection. The Doctor deliberately turned a bland gaze to 
    
     him. 
    
     "Hhmm? Oh, yes..." he replied, distractedly. The artist sat 
    
     back with a speculative look. 
    
     The Doctor looked to see what exactly Grace was up to. It 
    
     appeared she had seen none of his portrait presentation; she was 
    
     too busy being chatted up by a handsome, dark-haired, mustachioed 
    
     fellow. He was holding one of her hands, under the pretext that 
    
     he was about to read her palm. 
    
     "Your hand...it is so cold," he said, smiling at her. "Ah, 
    
     yes," the fellow exclaimed. "Here is your life-line..." He 
    
     paused suddenly, frowning down at her palm, as if puzzled, but 
    
     continued. The Doctor saw Grace roll her eyes. Did she need 
    
     rescuing? No - she was handling that rascal, Giacomo, well 
    
     enough. 
    
     Still... 
    
     The Doctor shot a glance of pure mischief their way. Everyone at the table flinched, startled, as he abruptly stood 
    
     up and slammed a fist down on the table top, hard enough to jolt 
    
     wine out of several glasses. Most of the party-goers looked up 
    
     in anticipation. Was there about to be a row over the American 
    
     woman? Grace was gazing at him speculatingly, an eyebrow 
    
     raised, as the Doctor leaned forward, glaring. 
    
     "It's been going on long enough, Giacomo!" he said sternly. 
    
     Grace's would-be swain dropped her hand somewhat guiltily. 
    
     The Doctor continued. "Everyone's been telling me that you 
    
     have yet to finish that opera, what was it - 'Le Villi', that 
    
     you've been working on! When will it be produced, and the name 
    
     Puccini begin to get the recognition it deserves?" He sat back 
    
     down. 
    
     Grace's jaw dropped, and her head swiveled around to stare at 
    
     the man next to her. "Giacomo Puccini? You're _the_ 
    
     Giacomo Puccini?" 
    
     "Er...yes," the man replied, surprised by her reaction. 
    
     She'd just spent the last ten minutes being chatted up by her 
    
     favorite opera composer. 
    
     "Oh!" she exclaimed, grabbing hold of his hands, feeling 
    
     star-struck. "I love all of your operas! In fact, 
    
     I just recently saw Madame-" 
    
     Across the table, someone cleared their throat meaningfully, 
    
     and she stopped, wincing. She'd been babbling. What had she 
    
     been saying? 
    
     Puccini was looking at her, confusion written all over his 
    
     face. "I'm sorry," he said. "You must have me confused with 
    
     someone else. I'm scoring an opera, but I haven't yet finished 
    
     it." 
    
     "Ah...What I meant," she said quickly, back-pedaling, "is 
    
     that I'm sure that you're going to write the music for a number 
    
     of operas, and that people will love them." She squeezed 
    
     Puccini's hands in hers, and smiled broadly as he looked back at 
    
     her, bemused. 
    
     "You _are_ going to write operas, aren't you? You must!" 
    
     She thought she heard a strangled noise from across the table, 
    
     but ignored it. 
    
     "In fact," she said, a wicked gleam in her eye, "I _know_ 
    
     you will!" Puccini stared at her, obviously a little unnerved by 
    
     her intensity. She leaned forward conspiratively. "You see," 
    
     she said, dropping her voice down low, "I have a...feeling for these kinds of thing, sometimes. And I just know that you will be a successful composer." 
    
     He smiled back at her, now, not at all displeased by her words 
    
     of encouragement, as she released his hands. She could see why 
    
     the Doctor did this sort of hint-dropping so often - this was 
    
     _fun_! 
    
     The Doctor captured everybody's attention again as he got to 
    
     his feet once more and raised his cup. "A toast!" he shouted 
    
     and the rest gladly took up the cry. "A toast to all the Arts, 
    
     that bring Beauty to our lives!" 
    
     Everyone raised their glasses and cheered, and the party wound 
    
     on into the night. 
    
     As the party finally broke up, hours later, the revelers began 
    
     drifting off somewhat tipsily into the mist-shrouded Milan 
    
     streets. Grace wrapped the shawl that was serving as a jacket 
    
     around herself, as the Doctor waited nearby. She probably 
    
     looked, she mused, like a character from one of Puccini's 
    
     operas. 
    
     Ahead of them, Giacomo Puccini, future composer of several 
    
     operas that would in time become standards in the repertoires of 
    
     opera houses around the world, was heading out of the square. 
    
     He looked back at her and the Doctor, and she waved. He grinned 
    
     wistfully, and lifted a hand in farewell. 
    
     The Doctor regarded Grace slyly. "What if I told you that 
    
     what little you said to him here tonight was going to change 
    
     history, cause him not to go on to write those operas?" 
    
     She snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound. "I'd say that 
    
     you were full of it." 
    
     "Oh? How does that follow?" he asked, amused. She looked 
    
     momentarily skyward as she slipped the drawstring of her reticule 
    
     over her wrist. 
    
     "Well...if he had gone on and not written those operas, I'd 
    
     have no memory of them right now. But I do. So he did." She 
    
     rolled her gaze expectantly back to him. 
    
     "Well," he conceded, "as it happens, you're correct about 
    
     history remaining unchanged, though it's not _quite_ as 
    
     simple as you described it. You've got to be very careful about 
    
     that sort of thing; you have no idea what historical events and 
    
     minute details may be important, in the end." 
    
     She put her hands on her hips and gave him a Look. "You're a 
    
     fine one to talk - you do it all the time!" 
    
     "Yes, but I know what I'm doing." 
    
     "Uh-huh," she said, sardonically. "Ladies and Gentlemen, the 
    
     Time Lord is a Professional. Do not try this at home!" 
    
     "Something like that, yes," he laughed. "So, what do you 
    
     think of Puccini, now that you've met him?" 
    
     She considered, thoughtfully. "I didn't really know that much 
    
     about him before; I just enjoyed his music. He certainly was fun 
    
     to talk to, though he _is_ an awful skirt-chaser, isn't he? 
    
     I mean, _please_ - 'Grace, your hand is so cold-'" She stopped abruptly. "Oh, my." She shook her head and laughed, as 
    
     her friend grinned. "Well, at least it worked for Rodolfo!*" 
    
     The Doctor gallantly offered her his arm in the proper 
    
     gentlemanly fashion of the time. Grace took it, and they set off 
    
     through the lamp-lit streets, for the TARDIS. 
    
     **Fin.** 
    
     ***** Who used that line on his love, Mimi, in Puccini's opera 'La Boheme', with considerably more success...;-) 


End file.
